Black, White, and Variants of Grey
by The Black Sun's Daughter
Summary: People see in black and white until they find their bondmate and learn to See. That is the way of the world.
**A/N: I told my good friend aunteeneenah I would be writing fluffy slashy goodness to make up for "Every Colour In Between," so here is an alternate telling with a much happier ending. :)**

* * *

Stephen ran into his bondmate on the campus of Central Metropolitan University outside of one Professor Nick Cutter's door.

Quite literally.

He walked around the corner with a stack of term papers tucked under one arm and collided with another warm body hard enough to send the owner of said body sprawling on his arse. Stephen didn't even falter a step back, though he did manage to lose all his papers in the collision. "Bugger it," he growled, crouching down.

"Oh, sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to – _oh._ "

Stephen's head came up at the soft, breathless voice and froze all at once like a deer caught in the high beams, his chest tightening up peculiarly as all sorts of beautiful, vibrant colours began leaching into his sight, replacing the shades of black, white, and variants of grey he was used to seeing.

Brown. That was the first colour that he Saw, and his absolutely favourite colour, the colour of this boy's – Nick's student, _his_ bondmate – eyes. Warm and dark and soft, lovely brown eyes the colour of melted dark chocolate. He was still kneeling there, rigid in shock, when the boy sat up and wrapped arms around his neck, hugging him tightly, breaking the stillness of the moment.

"It's _you,"_ the young man burbled happily in his ear, then kissed his cheek. "M'name's Connor Temple."

 _Oh._ Stephen wasn't the sort for public affection, much preferring to keep it private, between himself and his chosen partner, but damn it, that felt good. He had never quite bought into the whole idea of bondmates, the idea that one individual was everything for another person. He'd considered the term 'soulmate' highly overrated. But he was rearranging that view very quickly, because just _this,_ simply being _hugged_ by his bondmate, fully clothed, felt better than any sex he'd had with someone _not_ his bondmate. His arms came up and wrapped around Connor Temple, feeling multiple layers of fabric, soft and warm; he tucked his head against the younger man's neck. After a moment, he pulled back and leant away but didn't take his hands off the young man just yet.

"Coffee?"

It actually took him a moment to process the fact that he'd been asked a question. "Eh?" he asked oh-so-brilliantly.

Connor Temple smiled, and _oh,_ if Stephen hadn't half-loved him already, he would've just then because he had a one-dimpled, crooked smile with slightly too-big front teeth, producing the most endearing rabbity look. "You wanna go get coffee? I mean, just 'cause we're bondmates doesn't mean we automatically know everything about each other. So…coffee?"

Stephen nodded. "Coffee."

* * *

There was a half-decent café on campus, which had saved more than one student from dying of caffeine withdrawals during finals week and had saved Stephen from passing out from exhaustion in the week after finals week when he had to do most of the grading, as Cutter wouldn't ever do it himself. Right now he was sitting at one of the high tables near the windows, a part of his mind stunned half-senseless by all the _colours._ God, he'd never even realised just how bright the world truly was until now.

Connor Temple was sitting across from him, clasping a mug of tea between his hands; he was wearing red fingerless gloves with a few loose strings dangling from them. His bondmate had dark hair that just reached past his jawline and fair, pale skin without blemishes or scars, and despite the many layers of clothing, Stephen got glimpses of slender wrists and could easily imagine him the rest of him being just as slight. And speaking of layers, every bit of his clothing was either patched, too big, mismatched, or a mix of all three, from red Converses to navy trousers and blue shirt and yellow undershirt, a waistcoat and scarf of all things, and a fedora tipped back on his head, slightly frayed at the brim. Taken altogether, to anyone else that could See, he'd be an eyesore, but Stephen found it just perfect. He knew, in some distant rational part of his mind, that right now his brain was swimming in endorphin and serotonin and dopamine, and it produced a euphoric sensation that chemists said outdid any arteficial high drugs could induce, hence he wasn't quite thinking straight. But who cared?

"So…what's your name?" Connor asked; he had a thick Yorkshire inflection.

"Stephen Hart," he replied, a little embarrassed that he'd neglected to give his name.

The young man's mouth twisted in a wry little expression. "Hart the Tart?"

A groan escaped his lips as he sat back and pinched the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger. "Not you, too," he sighed. Damn those bloody prats that'd come up with his infamous title and hadn't hesitated to tell _everyone_ that'd lend an ear to listen. Apparently, he was the epitome of the male animal that would shag anything on two legs provided it stand still long enough, only to disappear at the break of day, never to call again. He wouldn't lie, he'd had more than just a few partners over the years, and yes, most of them had just been a few one-nighters with pretty women (and one or two blokes) that'd had an itch to scratch. But most of them never went past the one night, none of them ever expected more than a good time under the sheets.

Connor gave a soft, awkward little laugh, reaching up to scratch almost self-consciously at his arm. "Guess I'm not exactly what you expected, then, eh?" he asked, looking down at his shoes.

Stephen's gaze snapped up to the young man, dropping his hand from his face and leaning forward to grasp one of Connor's wrists. "Don't you do that," he said in a low, intense voice. Because he could almost _see_ the insecurity in the question, the unspoken, _I'm not what you wanted,_ that was underneath the words. "I won't lie to you, Connor. Yes, I've had a couple girlfriends in the past, if you can call one-time shag buddies 'girlfriends.' But I'll never have another one, understand? Not now. Not when I have you." A little cliché, maybe, but the truth nonetheless. Connor Temple smiled just the smallest bit, but it was enough for Stephen, gently squeezing his wrist before sitting back. "So, tell me...what should I know about you?" he mused, stirring his coffee and noticing absentmindedly that coffee with no cream and two sugars is almost the same colour as Connor's eyes.

"I'm a Doctor Who junkie, I haven't missed a single Comic-Con since I was six, I own every Star Trek series and film, and the complete director's cut edition of all the Star Wars as well. So...grade-A geek, pretty much," Connor admitted, a rather fetching pink flush spreading up his neck into his cheeks. Stephen wondered if he blushed down his chest, too, or maybe his back. "And what about you? Are you all into exercise and rugby and hunting expeditions?"

"Erm...yeah, actually. I'm pretty big on that sort of stuff. It's a favourite hobby of mine to head down to the shooting range, but I'm also probably more interested in microbiology than any normal person has a right to be," he replied. He'd never gotten along with people for the most part, because he _was_ so involved in his job, in zoology and paleontology and microbiology, and plenty of other -ologies that tended to throw normal folks for a loop in conversation.

"Oh. Well, good. I've got the same issue. Hey, wanna see my database?"

* * *

The thing about bondmates, Stephen mused, that with the colours and the feeling of utter _rightness,_ came a deep-seated and powerful urge to _protect_. Maybe it was just a part of his personality that he hadn't really known before now, being rather uninvolved in any lasting relationship, but he seemed to be inherently protective, nearly to the point of being possessive. Something that wasn't exactly good, considering that he and Connor both worked in quite possibly the most dangerous work environment in the world, outside of an active warzone.

 _"Connor!"_ Stephen wasn't sure his chest would ever unclench, seeing the raptor coming straight after his bondmate with claws and teeth bared, extended to kill. But then the geek dropped to the floor, sliding underneath the descending shutter like some kind of post-grunge Indiana Jones wannabe. It was a pretty slick move, all things considered, and the raptor was trapped on the other side, but Stephen's pulse was still in his mouth, chest tight. He dropped to his knees, nearly bowling Abby over, and seized a fistful of Connor's waistcoat, hauling him into a semi-upright position. "What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" he shouted, giving the geek a hard shake so that his teeth clicked.

"Oi, lay off 'im," Abby snapped, punching him hard in the shoulder, and for the briefest of seconds, he almost, _almost_ considered punching her back because Connor was _his_ bondmate and she had no bloody right.

"It's alright, Abs," Connor said in that deceptively calm voice of his, that voice Stephen knew he reserved for skittish animals and small children. And Stephen himself when in one of his protective fits. He laid one of his hands over Stephen's, still fisted around his waistcoat, and gently prised his fingers loose. "It was stupid of me anyways."

It wasn't until they finally got back to the ARC that Stephen managed to unwind. He was sitting in his office – a proper office, too, and not the oversized broom cupboard that CMU assigned him – when Connor slipped in the door, carrying a tin of chocolate biscuits. The geek proffered the tin to him, a peace offering. Stephen made a come-hither gesture with one hand, and his bondmate came 'round to sit on the edge of his desk. "Please, don't ever do something like that again," he murmured, resting one hand on Connor's knee, picking at a little hole frayed in the material.

"I'll try not to," Connor Temple replied.

Stephen knew that was about all Connor _could_ promise, all any of them could promise. Sometimes, they would have to let themselves get hurt, be the ones to take the beating and the bruises, otherwise a civilian might end up taking that fall instead, and they couldn't let that happen. So trying not to would have to be enough. Heaving a sigh, he patted the young man's knee, then picked a biscuit out of the tin, noting, like he always did, that chocolate biscuits were nearly the same colour as Connor's eyes, though they were still inferior.

The geek smiled, ruffling his hair gently, then hopped of the desk. "C'mon. Lester wants us to meet the new PR manager. Abby an' Cutter are waiting."

* * *

"I always thought that Helen was Cutter's bondmate," Connor Temple remarked later that night, when they were finally, _finally_ alone, back at Stephen's flat.

"Mm-mm," he replied, shaking his head slightly. "He told me once that they weren't." Stephen reached down with an idle hand to card fingers through the dark spill of hair lying across his lap; he had his bondmate stretched across his sofa, feet propped up on the armrest, head and shoulders cradled in his lap. Connor was typing something archaic and technical on his laptop, and the tracker was reading over the recent publications of the academic journals he subscribed to.

It had been quite a surprise to find out that not only was their new PR a woman by name of Jenny Lewis, but that she was apparently Nick Cutter's bondmate. Upon seeing her, the professor had gotten a look on his face reminiscent to one that'd been recent struck 'round the head with a baseball bat, and Jenny had gone very quiet, all trace of her former room-sweeping confidence gone, almost shy as Cutter approached her. Stephen, having experienced the shock of Seeing and _colour_ all at once, could sympathise.

The soft tapping on the keyboard paused. "Then...why would they even – ?" Connor began, confused.

"Haven't the foggiest," Stephen replied. Why anyone would marry someone not their bondmate was beyond him. It seemed to him like setting up for failure. Most people didn't even think of marriage with anyone other than their bondmate. Some even wouldn't even bother dating. "Trust me, I puzzled over that one for years, mate. Best to just mark it down as one of those mysteries of the universe." He felt Connor shrug against his thigh, then continue typing.

He wasn't sure how long it was until Connor finally closed the laptop and set it on the coffee table, then stretched like a cat, curling his toes and arching his back. Stephen glanced down at him, feeling his stomach tighten as the younger man stretched up to kiss him softly, resting a gloved hand on the back of his neck. The tracker curled an arm around his waist, drawing him up and closer. It felt better than anything he'd had before, a simple kiss able to outdo any shag he'd had with someone else _not_ his bondmate. A delightful shiver ran through his body as Connor hummed happily against his lips, curling his body closer, inching over until he nearly sat in Stephen's lap, breaking away only to bubble small kisses down his jaw and neck.

Curling an arm behind the young man's knees, Stephen couldn't quit stifle the quiet laugh that escaped his lips as he stood abruptly and Connor gave a startled yelp, clutching at him tightly. "Don't you _dare_ drop me, Hart!"

"Wouldn't think of it," Stephen laughed as he carried his bondmate across the flat into his bedroom, depositing him gently on the bed. He'd changed the blankets out last week, exchanging the plaid quilt for the warmer woolen blankets that, perhaps not so coincidentally, were a dark shade of brown.

The geek didn't fail to notice either, smoothing his hands across the blankets and grinning up at him, that heart-melting crooked smile. "So...I think I can guess what your favourite colour is," he said brightly.

"And I bet I could guess yours," Stephen remarked, picking at Connor's royal blue hoodie with a smirk, then sank down to kiss him again.

The next morning, he woke to Connor sitting on the bed next to him, holding two mugs of tea and smiling soporifically. Stephen loved his bondmate.

* * *

They never told anyone they were bondmates. At first, it'd been simply a matter of preservation. Whilst it wasn't uncommon for students to have bonded with their teachers, usually the age gap between bondmates was much smaller, and often the student half of the bond would be accused of using their bondmate to get top marks. It was a nasty affair altogether, and Stephen had seen it for himself. It was something he never wanted to see happen to Connor. But soon it became a matter of self-preservation. For as much as Nick acted aloof and distant, the professor was rather protective of Connor in a fatherly way, and he still held more than a little grudge against Stephen for the affair with Helen, though it was somewhat gentled by Jenny's temperance. Not even Abby was privy to Connor having a bondmate, and Stephen would've rather liked to keep it that way. A not-so-little selfish part of him liked having Connor all to himself, just being _his_ and no one else having to know.

But he should've known better than that.

"What's your favourite colour?" Nick asked one day, out of the blue.

"Brown," Stephen answered reflexively, then cursed under his breath as the professor laughed victoriously.

"I bloody _knew_ it! Hell, Stephen, why didn't you ever say anything?" Nick asked, pushing aside the papers and leaning forward to give his friend undivided interest. "Well, go on, then, spill. Who is it? Do I know 'em?"

Stephen let out a slow breath as he set down the papers he was rearranging, mind scrambling for a way to break this gently, and in a way that wouldn't get him punched. "We decided to keep it quiet for a while. We met at Uni. It's a student. That's why we didn't announce it. Didn't want any rumours going around," he said carefully; Nick gave a nod of agreement, though, to his relief. "And after, well, between the dinosaurs and the holes in space-time, things got a bit twisted for a while."

"Fair enough. So, who is it?" Nick prompted again.

 _Fuck._ "Ah, well..."

With impeccable timing, as always, Connor came striding in, all enthusiasm and excitement, but it died off just as quickly seeing the look on Stephen's face. Nick looked from the lab tech to his student and back again, the pieces falling together in his head. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me," he growled.

"Nick – "

"You son of a _bitch,"_ the professor snapped, as if Stephen had any choice in the matter. He shoved to his feet and looked about ready to throttle his lab tech...

Except Connor got in his way. The geek dropped his armful of papers into a chair and put himself between the two, standing facing his own professor, arms reaching around to grasp protectively at Stephen, who automatically placed a hand on his waist. He stared up at Nick balefully, despite being shorter and slighter than the Scotsman, and looked ready to challenge him to a round of fisticuffs himself. "Mine," he said, his voice direct and firm; Stephen's throat tightened slightly. "If you hurt him, you'll hurt me too, and I'll not go anywhere without him."

Nick looked from the young man to Stephen and back again, his face unreadable. Finally, he unclenched his fists and heaved an exasperated sigh. "Fine. _Fine,_ " he relented, then jabbed a finger at the lab tech. "But I swear to God, Hart, one toe out of line..." He trailed off, but Stephen could fill in the blanks himself fairly well. He had a feeling that dismemberment and creatures would be involved.

"Wouldn't even think of it," he murmured back in relief, resting his chin atop Connor's head as the lad reclined into him gratefully.

Abby got herself into quite a snit once she found out, torn between squealing and hugging them in delight to cuffing and berating them both for not telling her sooner. Lester merely rolled his eyes and asked that they keep from shagging on the premises. Jenny only smiled and embraced them both. Nick skulked about a bit, but soon enough, Stephen was welcomed back into the fold as a member of the team and their friend again.

His world had righted itself. Finally.

* * *

If anyone was to ask Stephen James Hart what his favourite colour was, as it was a common question amongst those that could See, he would answer brown without any hesitation. Because brown, to him, was the colour of comfort and of warmth. Of the morning cuppa tea to get him going, of the wool blankets in his flat, of chocolate biscuits, of good coffee with no cream and two sugars. It was the colour of his bondmate's eyes, and it was the colour of home.


End file.
